


when we watch the stars, do they watch us?

by NorthStarofJakku



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Actor Ben Solo, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Artist Rey (Star Wars), Ben Solo is Trying, Broken Engagement, Child Abandonment, Dark Poe Dameron, F/M, Flashbacks, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Protective Rose Tico, Rey & Rose Tico Are Best Friends, Rey Needs A Hug (Star Wars), Rey is Trying Her Best (Star Wars), Rey is a Kenobi (Star Wars), Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, Work In Progress, high school sweethearts, no beta reader we die like men, workplace harassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:13:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29751144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthStarofJakku/pseuds/NorthStarofJakku
Summary: Ben Solo is a troubled Hollywood actor who just checked out of rehab and is now on the run. Rey is a children's book illustrator who's given up on a happily ever after. Then one day, their paths cross...
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico, Finn & Rey (Star Wars), Jannah & Rey & Rose Tico, Jannah & Rey (Star Wars), Rey & Rose Tico, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! Welcome to my second fic on AO3!
> 
> This fic is based on a prompt I saw on Twitter months ago and have been thinking about ever since, but I have so far been unsuccessful in tracking the prompt down again. If I find it, I will update with a link here. (I would much rather link it with a spoiler tag than describe it, because it would give away some key plot elements up front!)
> 
> Please enjoy the first chapter! :)

“ _Do you like it?” he asked her, taking her hand and turning it to admire the simple gold band in the moonlight. “It's not much, I know...one day, I'll get you a nicer one. Maybe one with a diamond, if you'd like.”_

“ _No,” she insisted. “I love it. It's beautiful.” She scoffed. “Diamonds are overrated anyway. Less is more.”_

_He smiled at her, a wistful, youthful smile, his eyes illuminated by the full moon and the faraway stars of his dreams. They were both nineteen, the perfect age for dreaming—old enough for practicality, but young enough that anything was still possible. “I love you,” he murmured to her, as he leaned in to kiss her. “I want to spend my whole life with you.”_

_Her hand slid up his collar to rest on the back of his neck, her cool fingers carding through his dark hair. “I love you, too,” she whispered back, as she accepted his kiss._

_He leaned further towards her, drawing her to him, his large hands cradling her back, sturdy and supportive, something that she could always count on from him. His lips pulled away from hers and trailed over her cheekbone as her pulse began racing, ready to surrender herself completely to him, ready to do whatever he asked of her, holding her breath to listen intently to what he was about to whisper in her ear._

_She could have sworn she heard him saying “I promise I'll never leave you.”_

* * *

The dream was always the same.

Maybe it was less than a dream and more of a vivid memory, but her subconscious kept replaying it every chance it could, and it always left Rey feeling empty, as if her whole world was only colored in shades of gray.

It had been—how long? Nine years?—since that night. They were so young—practically children playing a game. It was a schoolyard crush that she had deluded herself into feeling like a serious adult relationship. First loves are supposed to be foolish like that—you think you're going to be together forever, and it doesn't last. That was exactly what it was. It was a first love. It didn't last.

So why did it keep haunting her?

She blinked at her ceiling, not interested in checking the time—it was still dark, so, clearly, morning was some ways off—and she rolled over onto her side, wrapping her arms around the body pillow she slept with, feeling numb and exhausted.

_I promise I'll never leave you._

_But then you did_ , she retorted silently. _So why are you still in my dreams? Get out of my head._

As always, no answer came.

* * *

Rey set her tablet aside with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She swiveled her chair back to her computer, picking up the coffee cup she had abandoned an hour earlier, finding it now mostly full of cold coffee and cream. She had been so absorbed in her work that she had completely forgotten about it.

It was a good thing. If she could stay focused on her work, she could crowd out everything else. She had been an illustrator at Resistance Publishing for four years now, and it was the perfect work to distract her from her thoughts. Everything she created was whimsical and carefree and brightly colored, and the stories always ended happily, which was the exact opposite of her dull, grayscale life. Even if her own world felt incomplete and lacked color sometimes, she could always create a new one that exploded with it, where every character was uncomplicated, each situation unambiguous and easily resolved.

She balanced her coffee in one hand as she scrolled through her emails, but then a notification from her Google alert popped up on her computer screen, catching her attention.

Her fingers poised over the mouse. _Do I need to click this?_ Rey asked herself. _Can't I just ignore it?_

She considered just closing it out and moving on with her day, but she couldn't help herself. She clicked on it.

A laundry list of gossip column links opened in front of her. _Infamous Hollywood Bad Boy Ben Solo Checks Out of Rehab_ , the first headline said. Intrigued despite her better judgment, she clicked on it to open the article.

> _Ben Solo, well-known for his tortured performances on-screen and his excessive partying off-screen, has checked out of rehab and returned to his Beverly Hills home, our sources say. Solo, whose history of on-set meltdowns is well documented, had publicly announced in August that he was taking a break from acting to seek treatment for his alcoholism._
> 
> _No word on when he plans to return to acting. Representatives for both Solo and his alleged girlfriend Kaydel Connix have declined to comment._
> 
> _The pair's latest movie,_ Forgotten Angels _, is now in theaters._

“Alleged,” Rey murmured aloud. She scrolled down to look at the pictures accompanying the article. She recognized one of the photos—an older one from the premiere of his previous film, _The Unwilling Son—_ looking uncomfortable in a black tuxedo that could be best described as tasteful, but hopelessly basic. The other was a blurry paparazzo shot—you could barely tell it was him, but Rey _knew—_ of a clearly intoxicated Ben Solo being dragged away from a club.

“You were a mess,” Rey scoffed, studying his troubled face. “But I hope you're doing better now.”

Rose Tico, the art director, tapped on the door to Rey's office, interrupting her thoughts. “Hey. Got a minute?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Rey said, swiveling her chair in Rose's direction. “What's up?”

“Maz Kanata needs two of the drawings redone for her book,” Rose told her, locating and extricating a manila folder from the large stack she was cradling in the crook of one arm.

Rey groaned. “Why now?”

Rose gave an empathetic shrug. “She wants the kite to be _yellow,_ ” she explained, dropping the folder in front of Rey. “Sorry. _I_ think they're really good.”

Rey reached for the folder with a resigned sigh. “I'll get on that,” she said. She flipped through the contents, shaking her head. “I guess this is better than the last time, right? When she insisted on _penguins_ in her book about the North Pole?” She crossed her eyes.

Rose exhaled something between a laugh and a sigh. “Well, I think they're beautiful,” she said. “Some of your best work, really.”

Rey scoffed, a small, self-assured smile lighting up her face. “Thanks,” she said. “Anything else you need from me?”

“Actually, yes,” Rose continued, extracting another manila envelope. “I need you to sign this. You've been assigned a special project.” She dropped the folder on the table with a glance at the door to ensure no one was in earshot, then leaned towards Rey. “Rumor from the editors is that we have a _VIP_ interested in pitching us a book,” she told her in a low voice.

Rey wrinkled her nose, reaching for the folder and skimming over its contents. “And you need _me_?” she asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” Rose answered, her tone matter-of-fact. “You're our best illustrator, and you're so down-to-earth.”

“I'm not big on celebrity worship, you mean,” Rey translated.

Rose tilted her head, conceding. “Right,” she agreed. “I know you'd be a very professional collaborator.”

Rey flipped through the pages, squinting at the small print. “It's a standard non-disclosure agreement, right?” she asked.

“Yes. Legal looked it over before I brought it to you. Nothing unusual, just a clause that when you're onboard with the project, you have to complete it.”

“When have you ever known me to not finish a project?”

“Why do you think I asked you?” Rose smirked.

“Do we know who it is?” Rey flipped to the last page and scribbled her signature.

“I have no idea. But we're having a meeting about it tomorrow morning. 10 AM. In these cases, it's usually one of their PR people,” Rose added quickly. “You probably won't work directly with the author.”

“Sure.” Rey scribbled some notes down on a sticky note, then slapped it on her computer monitor. “10 AM tomorrow. I'll be there.”

“Yeah.” Rose was distracted by something on Rey's computer screen— _oh shit!_ Rey realized, too late, that the article she was reading was still open, Ben Solo's face still regarding them with a flat expression, his eyes smoldering through the screen.

_So much for that thing about celebrity worship._

“Are you a Ben Solo fan?” Rose asked, her smile widening in surprise and delight.

“Just reading the news,” Rey explained quickly, reaching for her mouse and closing the window. “Idle curiosity.”

“Have you seen his new movie yet?” Rose shook her head in amazement. “Just—wow. He's _so good._ ”

“Mm,” Rey agreed uncomfortably. “No, I haven't seen it, yet. I don't go to a lot of movies.”

“You should. I think you'd like it.” Rose sighed. “You know, I know he's had his...problems. But I think, deep down, he's a good guy. He has to be.”

“Maybe.” Rey shrugged. “You shouldn't put actors on pedestals, though. They're human. They're bound to disappoint you.”

Rose nodded thoughtfully. “You're right,” she said. “Well, I _hope_ he's a good guy. Or, at least, that he got the help he needed.”

“Amen to that,” Rey agreed, wholeheartedly. She took a final swallow of her coffee, then swung her chair around to grab her tablet. “Well, if I'm helping Mr. or Ms. Hollywood with their book, I guess I better make the fucking kite yellow,” she said, arching her eyebrows with a sardonic expression.

“You've got this,” Rose said, pumping her fist in encouragement. “Oh, hey, wanna have dinner on Saturday? You can bring the new guy along, if you want.”

Rey lowered her head. “I, uh, broke up with him two weeks ago,” she admitted.

“Two weeks ago?” Rose demanded. “What happened?”

Rey kept her head down. “It just didn't work,” she mumbled.

Rose frowned, feeling sad for her friend. “I wish you'd said something to me. Are you doing okay?”

“Fine,” Rey answered, lifting her head. “I've been through this before. It's like changing my shoes, at this point. No big deal.”

“You'll find someone,” Rose insisted. “He's out there for you.”

“I'm sure,” Rey said with a wry smile.

Rose waved, her smile perky and cheerful, as always, and as she left the office, Rey let out a long sigh, considering the work ahead of her.

She lifted her stylus, and began to sketch, losing herself to her work once more.

* * *

It was downpouring, and Ben pulled the hood of his coat over his dark hair, cursing to himself. He had lived around Los Angeles for so many years that he had forgotten that fall in the Pacific Northwest meant _rain—_ and _cold rain_ , at that.

He tightened his collar, thinking for a fleeting moment that this could be like a scene in a movie, the fallen hero on the path to redemption, standing outside a shitty motel, on a dark, rainy night in October, reflecting on his life and what led him here, and it would be a really striking and moving image for the audience...

...except this was _not_ a movie. The role he was playing was himself, in his own life, and hopefully no one was watching him.

_Fuck this rain, though._

He adjusted his black face mask so it fit snugly over his nose. Since he left rehab, it seemed like the best way to avoid detection—and, truth be told, it _really_ helped with his allergies. He tugged the door open and walked into the lobby, yanking his suitcase behind him over the threshold.

The clerk at the front desk—had to be a college kid, Ben guessed—looked completely unfazed, and Ben wondered just what kind of guests came through this place if the sight of a man his size with his face partially obscured wasn't at least a little alarming to the staff. “Can I help you, sir?” the clerk greeted him.

“I need a room,” Ben told him, approaching the desk.

“Sure.” The clerk tapped on his keyboard. “How long were you planning on staying?”

“Not sure. Couple days, at least.”

“Okay.” The clerk typed some more. “Name?”

“Just put it under Kylo Ren.” Ben glanced around the dilapidated lobby, checking to see if anyone else was there, but it was just him, the clerk, and the broken fluorescent light flickering above them.

Still no reaction from the clerk—less of a surprise to Ben; surely this wasn't the most imaginative fake name he'd heard. “I'm going to need to see a credit card for a moment, if you don't mind.”

Ben pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “I'll pay in cash,” he said. He counted out a stack of bills and slid it across the counter. “Will that be enough?”

Now the clerk's eyes widened—this, Ben supposed, was unusual, at least. “Sir...how long were you planning on staying?”

“I don't know. How many nights will that get me?”

The clerk counted the bills, then tapped a few strokes into his keyboard. “Um...ten, sir.”

“Fine.”

“Sure. Let me get you your room key.” The clerk reached under the desk, made a few final keystrokes, then slid a keycard across the counter. “Room 326. Elevator's around the corner and down the hall, but it's slow as hell. Probably better off taking the stairs.”

Ben nodded. “Thank you,” he said, picking up the keycard.

“Hey, your voice sounds really familiar for some reason,” the clerk said, narrowing his eyes in thought. “Do I know you from something?”

Without hesitation, Ben slapped a folded $100 bill on the counter. “If you think of it, that's for keeping your mouth shut,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away from the desk.

The clerk was right about the elevator—after an eternity of listening to unsettling grinding and screeching sounds, Ben decided that it was probably safer to take the stairs anyway. Although, given the state of the carpeting on the stairs, he wasn't sure how _much_ safer it was. Maybe he would die here either way, and he had a choice between a swift death in the elevator or a slow, painful death from all of the mold and asbestos and _God knows what_ he was almost certainly inhaling every time he took the stairs.

He'd take his chances—he was familiar with dying slowly and painfully. Besides, his face mask was probably blocking out at least _some_ of the toxic shit.

Probably.

The room was, predictably, an eyesore—ancient, dingy carpeting, faded curtains, a tarnished mirror over a rust-stained sink, a bed with a slightly sunken mattress and some questionable stains on the duvet, and he didn't even want to _look at_ the bathroom—but he had nowhere better to go. To be sure, there were much nicer hotels in the area, but no one would be looking for him at a hole in the wall like this one. He slung his suitcase on the bed—which groaned under the sudden weight—and wondered how long it would take for them to figure out he had left Los Angeles.

Hopefully, at least ten days—he wanted to get his money's worth, after all.

He started to open his suitcase to unpack, but it had been hours since he had eaten, and his stomach reminded him of this with a loud and determined grumble.

“I'd better get something,” Ben muttered to himself, readjusting his face mask. “Shithole like this probably doesn't have room service.”


	2. Chapter 2

Rey slid into a seat near the back of the theater, balancing a small bag of popcorn in one hand and a soda in the other. There were maybe only two or three other people in the theater—not many people liked going to a movie at 10:00 at night on a Monday, which was _exactly_ what she liked about it. It would just be her sitting on her own, in a dark room, enjoying the movie in solitude. It was probably the only experience she could have alone, without _feeling_ alone.

She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her hair as she settled into her seat, and she propped her feet up against the seat in front of her. Careful to not spill her popcorn, Rey reached into her sweatshirt pocket to extricate a small sketchbook, held shut with an elastic band. The theater staff used to hassle her at first, thinking that the bulk in her pocket was a smuggled snack or a weapon of some kind, but now they were used to her—but, as a truce, she would still buy concessions from them, to make them feel better about their trust in her.

She flipped to a clean page, settled the book on her lap, and munched on her popcorn, her eyes on the screen, flinching at the loudness of the trailer for an upcoming action movie.

Finally, the opening credits for the film began— _Forgotten Angels_ , starring Ben Solo and his _alleged girlfriend_ Kaydel Connix. It was set in Prohibition era Chicago, and Ben Solo was a bootlegging gangster—Rey thought to herself that he looked ruggedly dangerous in a fedora and trench coat while carrying a Tommy gun—and Kaydel Connix played the beautiful undercover agent assigned to help take his operation down, but fell for him instead.

Rey begrudgingly admitted, as she scribbled in her sketchbook, that they had really good chemistry, and their scenes together were tragically tense and compelling, as his character learned the truth about hers and wondered if it was better for him to end his life of crime, and she struggled with the decision to continue her operation or abandon it and join him instead. She found herself reluctantly swiping tears away from her eyes every time they looked longingly at each other and desperately wished that they could live in a world that would allow them to be together.

_None of this feels familiar,_ she thought bitterly to herself, glancing up at the screen before shading in an outline.

In the end, the gangster was gunned down in the street in the pouring rain, his death a noble sacrifice to save the undercover agent, who, unbeknownst to him, had unwillingly betrayed information about him and led him to his demise. It was a well-made scene, with a somber score accompanying the rhythmic tapping of the raindrops, the camera slowly panning up to show the red blood intermingled with the water and the gray pavement of the street he lay in, and then his body with his fedora cocked oddly over his face...but still...he was just _dead._

_Typical,_ Rey thought, rolling her eyes as the undercover agent, wailing, held the gangster's dead body. _Why would a love story end happily, after all?_ She shook her head, continuing her drawing. Sure, it seemed like that was where the story was maybe headed, anyway, and that was the problem. She wanted it to surprise her. Maybe the gangster could have redeemed himself, or the double agent could have left her career for a life of crime with the gangster. For that matter, they both could have left everything behind and run off together. It could have been meaningful. It could have been _different._

But perhaps that was too much to ask. Love was a tragedy. Always has been.

The end credits rolled up the screen, and the few people in the audience silently got up, gathered their things, and filed out, but Rey remained in her seat, still drawing. One of the employees, thinking that everyone had left, walked in and began to clean up, then spotted Rey still hunched over in her seat.

“Uh, miss?” he addressed Rey, startling her. “The movie's over.”

“Oh! I know,” she said, wincing. “Sorry. I'm almost done with my sketch. Then I'll leave. I'll clean up after myself, I promise.”

“Okay.” The employee nodded. “Sorry to interrupt you. Have a good night.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling, then turned her attention back to her drawing.

She finished just as the finale music concluded, and took one last assessing look at her work. _Not bad._ She had drawn Ben Solo as the gangster, his fedora tilted just slightly to one side and the collar of his trench coat popped, with one eye squeezed shut as he aimed his Tommy gun, a lit cigarette dangling out of his firmly set mouth. It might look nice with some watercolors, she pondered, but considering the subject, it looked nice as it was with just the black charcoal lines and shading.

Well, nothing more she could do at this moment but go home. She slapped her sketchbook shut, tucked it back into her pocket, and scooped up her garbage.

“Have a good night,” the theater manager called as Rey stalked towards the exit, pulling her jacket on.

“Thanks,” Rey said, turning her head. “You, too.”

“I guess we might not be seeing you for a while,” the manager went on. “Since he won't be in another movie anytime soon.”

Rey shrugged. “Might have to broaden my horizons,” she assured him, zipping her jacket. “They're making new movies every day.”

He tilted his head, agreeing. “It's a shame, though,” he said. “He's just too goddamn talented. No one else in the business is doing it quite like him, you know?”

Rey nodded solemnly. “I do know. Have a good night.” She pushed through the doors into the cold and driving rain, pulling her hood back over her head.

It was after midnight, and the world was pitch black, but for a few dim streetlights and the occasional glimmer through the window of the few businesses still open at this hour, which made the puddles on the sidewalks glitter faintly with ripples of light. Rey took a deep breath in, the cold, damp air settling into her lungs and her blood. No one else would be out tonight.

She had parked around the block from the theater, and she headed in that direction, hunching against the cold wind, and was surprised to see a man leaving the convenience store on the corner, at the end of the block. Holding her breath, she stopped and leaned back against the nearest building, peering cautiously in his direction, already plotting a new route in her head in case she had to change her course to avoid him.

He stood on the curb, a plastic bag in one hand, his other fiddling with an umbrella that he must have just purchased. Rey couldn't get a good look at his face—his hood covered most of his face from view, and a black face mask covered everything else—but he was a large man, his build somewhere between that of a Marine and a buffalo.

_Shit._ Her heart pounded in her ears, and she prayed he wouldn't come towards her.

He didn't. With a stubborn final shake, he managed to pop the umbrella open, and he lifted it over his head. Looking straight ahead, he darted across the street in a different direction and was gone.

Rey let out a sigh of relief. _Thank God._ Unwilling to take any further chances, she took off in a run towards her car, the rain soaking into her shoes.

* * *

Ben tossed the plastic bag on his bed and stripped the mask—now soaked through from the rain—off his face, finally getting a full whiff of the air in his room. “Smells like stale cigarettes,” he muttered to himself, setting his newly purchased umbrella down near the radiator to dry.

The only places open nearby at this time of night were a movie theater and a convenience store, and for food, he had opted for the latter. He flopped down on the bed and flipped on the TV—an old model, of course it was—and rifled through the bag to get a look at his dinner. It wasn't much, just a sandwich, a can of iced tea, and two bags of chips—definitely not what he was used to eating back in LA, but no one was pointing at him or taking pictures of him or interrupting him for an autograph or a selfie. A meager meal eaten in peace is far better than fine dining with the entire world watching.

He tore the wrapping off of his sandwich and bit into it hungrily, scrolling through the channels until an image of himself appeared and startled him. It was a re-airing of some celebrity gossip show, and, he noted, while rolling his eyes, apparently the celebrity they were gossiping about was _him_.

“We caught up with Kaydel Connix, Solo's rumored newest flame, to see if she had any comment.”

Ben snorted, cracking open his iced tea. _Like Kaydel would say anything if she_ did _know._

They cut to a crew out in LA, who was sprinting up to Kaydel as she walked her dog, the camera shaking so badly Ben thought he'd get motion sickness. “Kaydel! We've just heard about Ben Solo getting out of rehab, do you have any comment on that?”

Kaydel, who was pretty, blonde, and decidedly not Ben's type, looked confused, and lowered her lavender mirror-lensed sunglasses. “Uh,” she stammered. “I'm, like, happy for him. Glad he got the help he needed.”

“Has he discussed with you when he'll return to acting?”

Ben imagined that if Kaydel could somehow see through the camera into his hotel room, she would give him one of her “are these people serious?” looks, and he chuckled to himself, taking a pull from his tea. He liked working with her—she was really sweet and funny, and an excellent scene partner, but she was just too...LA. He was reserved, awkward, and thoughtful, but she was a firecracker, always bursting with light and energy whenever she entered a room. They thought it was a funny joke when they heard the rumors that they were dating, and teased each other about how they would be such an odd couple, but...

...Well, opposites attract, but there's being opposite from someone, and existing on completely different poles of a _planet_ as someone. That was him and Kaydel. But at least they could be convincing onscreen, even enough to fool the tabloids.

Kaydel's eyes darted around the camera crew. “No, he hasn't told me anything,” she said dismissively, pushing her sunglasses back up her nose and turning to walk away.

“Have you seen him?”

“No,” she replied casually, still walking, hardly acknowledging them.

“Have you two gotten engaged yet?”

Behind those sunglasses, she was definitely rolling her eyes. Ben smirked, feeling sad for a flicker of a moment that he couldn't text her to laugh about it later. But, he had left LA behind, for better or for worse, and that included the things he liked about it.

Not that there was much, but...having a friend was always an ideal.

They moved on to a different story, and Ben flipped channels again, feeling satisfied that, at least as of 6 PM Pacific Time when the show had first aired, no one had figured out he was gone yet.

* * *

Shivering, Rey entered her apartment, peeling off her soaked shoes, socks, and jacket on her way to the bathroom to run a bath. It was late— _very_ late—but it felt like the autumn chill had seeped through her skin and muscle to settle into her bones, and the only cure would be to defrost in hot water.

She didn't even wait for the tub to fill all the way. She stripped off her clothes and climbed into the tub, leaning back as the water level slowly rose around her, the warmth and the _whoosh_ of the running faucet soothing her into forgetting the stress of the day, and that _damned_ yellow kite.

Still, one thought nagged at her. It sucked that the movie ended that way. Rey kicked the faucet off, still thinking about the blood and the water on the pavement, and how stupid and meaningless it all was. Why couldn't they just be _happy_ at the end?

She closed her eyes, sucked in a breath, and submerged her head beneath the surface. Her own love story had ended miserably enough. Seeing love stories end so tragically, even in fiction, felt hopeless. Even if she had given up hoping for a happily ever after so long ago.

_Maybe I'm just cynical_ , she thought, lifting up her head and shaking the excess water from her hair, like a mermaid emerging from the sea to sunbathe. _Maybe I'm just a miserable person._

After steeping in the hot water for a few minutes, the chill in her body melted, and, reluctantly, she pulled the plug to drain the tub, reached for a dry towel, and tucked it around herself. She picked up her abandoned sweatshirt, the hood still cold and damp from the rain, and tugged her sketchbook out of the pocket. Careful not to let her wet hair drip on her drawings, she flipped through the pages, remembering the characters he had played and how their stories had ended. Early on it was mostly smaller roles, and those sketches were quick and incomplete, but eventually his career had gained traction and he started getting bigger roles. There was a blockbuster film set in space, the first really big break of his career, when his character died in his love interest's arms—the theater, full for even a late night showing, collectively sighed in disappointment, including Rey. There was a film where he played a 17th century Jesuit missionary, looking unsettlingly attractive in what was decidedly a very unsexy role, but his character died in the second act and was never mentioned again. A zombie movie, where he not only did not get a love story—which, Rey thought, was fine, that character was kind of an asshole—but he also died in the end, succumbing to the army of the living dead and becoming one of them. _The Unwilling Son,_ set during World War I, about a conscientious objector who was vilified by his small Northeastern town, then ended up joining the Army and was killed in action. Scattered throughout were minor TV appearances, a few late night talk shows, a comedy sketch show here and there. Rey had sketched them all, a visual diary of his career.

She didn't know why she did this, really, or what to do with them. No one else had seen her sketches, and Rey had no plans to change that. It was just something she found herself doing every time she saw one of his movies. Perhaps it was just a weak attempt at a connection she knew she couldn't have. Perhaps it was just something she had never bothered to stop doing.

With a sigh, Rey closed the sketchbook and walked to her bedroom, cringing at the feeling of the cold floor against her bare feet. She changed into a clean set of pajamas, thinking that she just wanted to see him in one movie, just _one_ , where his character would live and have a happy ending.

She slid into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. Not like it mattered to _her_ all that much...but it would make her feel maybe a little bit better about things for some reason.

Maybe if he had one, she could have one, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, writing this chapter: *realizes how many movies Adam Driver is in where his character dies*
> 
> I made a couple references to actual Adam Driver films ( _The Rise of Skywalker_ , _Silence_ , and _The Dead Don't Die_ ), but the others I made up...I used a title generator to give me randomized titles and then I guessed what those films would be about...it's a fun writing exercise :)
> 
> See you soon for Chapter 3!


	3. Chapter 3

“ _I'll call you when I get to Los Angeles,” he said, smiling, slinging a bag over his shoulder. He blinked, and his smile faded. “What's wrong?”_

“ _Why do I get the feeling that you're not coming back?” she asked softly, almost to herself._

_He scoffed, and his smile returned, loving and reassuring. “Don't be ridiculous,” he told her. He slid his fingers under her chin and lifted it so her eyes met his. “I'll come back for you, sweetheart.” He bent down to kiss her. “I promise.”_

_She reached up to wrap her arms around him, dragging him down towards her to bury her face in the crook between his shoulder and his neck, an anchor desperately trying to hold him in place and keep him with her. His large hands smoothed comfortingly over her back, and he closed his eyes, feeling her warmth, breathing in her perfume._

“ _I love you,” he murmured, nuzzling his cheek into her hair. The wetness of her tears trickled over his collarbone, and he hugged her closer, hoping the cavern that was opening in his heart could widen enough to let her in, so she could understand that this was as painful to him as it was to her. “I'll be back before you know it.”_

“ _I know you have to go,” she whispered. “I just wish you wouldn't.”_

_He pressed a soft kiss into her neck, just below her ear, his lips lingering against her skin. A sudden, silent fear bloomed in his core that he might not touch her like this again, and it frightened him so much that he wanted to memorize everything about the way she filled his senses when he held her, his entire world contained safely in his arms. “I know.”_

* * *

Ben's eyes opened, and a single tear slid across his temple as he stared at the morning light spangling on the ceiling, the dream still washing through his mind.

_I was coming back for you. But you didn't wait for me._

In a lifetime full of mistakes and regrets, she was his biggest one, but he couldn't exactly pinpoint _how_. Perhaps there were many facets that formed one big regret, like the many sides of a diamond that made it glitter in a certain way when you turned it in the light. Sometimes, he wished he'd never met her. Others, he wished he had never left her. Still others, he wondered why he blamed himself, since it was _her_ that turned away from _him_.

It had been years of trying so hard to forget her that in a way he felt like he had forgotten himself, and didn't know when the pain of losing her ended and when his other unnamed traumas began. He used to drink so heavily that he had forgotten why he was drinking, and that felt like as good of a reason as any. It was easy to say if it wasn't because of her, it was because of everything else, without confronting any of it. But, that life was unsustainable, and this whole time when he thought the darkest part of him was somehow hurting her or everyone else that had failed him, it was only really destroying him.

Still, _oh God,_ these cold fall mornings made him miss her the most, the memory of holding her as the faded light stretched to cover them still pressing against his mind like he was with her just yesterday. She never liked mornings, but she was always so warm, so safe, and he would just keep her close and watch her as she sleepily listened to the rain, a thousand thoughts twinkling in her eyes, but he never knew what they were.

He couldn't quite remember if he had ever asked her, or if he had ever listened to them.

They didn't have these mornings in Los Angeles, and that made it easier to forget about them. But now it was like he had never left, like she would appear on his doorstep, her smile like sunshine, playfully begging him to go get something to eat with her.

Ben had played many roles in his life, but the one he missed out on, the one he had so badly wanted, was to be the man that somehow deserved her. But, of course, that was one that could never be.

He sighed, and pulled himself upright, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Nothing he could do about that now. Besides, he had a meeting to get to. There was no time to drown in self-pity. He had already spent too much of his life on that.

Time to start being productive for once in his life.

* * *

“Good morning, Mr. Snoke,” Armitage Hux greeted his boss, pushing his chair back from his desk and getting to his feet. “And how was your trip to Las Vegas?”

His boss, known only as Snoke—if he had a full name, no one knew what it was but God and maybe the IRS—regarded Hux grimly. “Have you heard from Ben Solo?” he asked, ignoring Hux's greeting.

“He left rehab yesterday, sir,” Hux told him.

“Hmm,” Snoke rumbled thoughtfully. To most people, he looked like an ancient man, but he was really only somewhere in his sixties. Ages ago, he had fought in Vietnam, and probably should have died at least twice—once when a mine exploded only a few yards away from him, and another time when his entire company but him was wiped out in an ambush—and since then, he felt like his very existence was in defiance of whatever deity chose to spite him, that it was impossible to kill him. He chainsmoked cigarettes, even though his doctors told him to quit, and spent long days out on a boat in the California sun, and—to everyone's surprise, he was about as healthy as anyone his age can be, despite his physical features, which bordered on grotesque. His skin was like old leather, folded in on itself in a mass of wrinkles, his hair was completely gone, and his face was puckered from a pair of wretched-looking scars—the lone scratches from his war days—one a crater in his cheek that gave his mouth a perpetual twisted-looking appearance, and another a split in his forehead that, while healed years ago, looked as if his skin was tearing apart. He reminded one of a decaying corpse, but for his eyes—a sharp and piercing blue—that very much had life in them, so much so that they were deeply unsettling to look into directly.

Hux was the only one that didn't fear him—or, at least, he was best at hiding his fear, and so he was his trusted assistant, had been for years. Now about thirty, Hux was stern and world-weary with the maturity of a fully-fledged adult but still with the heady and foolhardy confidence of a man much younger than he. He dressed sharply, his dress shirts tailored with almost militaristic precision and pressed into unnaturally neat lines. He might have made a fine soldier, Snoke would think wryly—he would have kept his uniform clean, and he was good at following orders—and perhaps he was better suited for that than working at an agency in Hollywood. But, it was too late for him, and, either way, he was Snoke's, now.

“I need you to go to his house today,” Snoke instructed. “I have a few scripts for him to look over. He should be working on his next role now.”

Hux blinked. “He _just_ got out of rehab, sir,” he reminded Snoke. “You don't want to give him time to settle?”

“There'll be time to _settle_ when he's dead,” Snoke hissed. “I lost a great deal of money at the casinos, and I need his help getting it back.”

“Of course.” Hux nodded. He had never cared for Ben Solo—the man was talented, he begrudgingly accepted, but decidedly reckless, arrogant, and stand-offish. Hux always wondered what Snoke saw in Ben, since there were surely actors that were just as talented and much easier to work with, but, annoyingly, he was their cash cow—every film he touched was a success, and his success was theirs. “Shall I go over now?”

Snoke checked his pocket watch, then chuckled humorlessly to himself. “It's only 9 o'clock. Let's let him sleep in a little.” He smiled at Hux, the scar on his cheek twisting the corner of his mouth into an unsettling grimace.

Hux swallowed, hoping his disgust wasn't plain to his boss. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

“So...what's the situation, again?” asked Poe Dameron, who worked as an editor at Resistance Publishing, leaning back in his chair so it tipped away from the table. “I don't get it.”

Amilyn Holdo, the CEO, scoffed. “I don't either,” she told him. “And I don't _like_ it.”

Finn Jackson, one of the marketing specialists, fidgeted with his pen. “We're talking about the _real_ Ben Solo, here,” he said uncertainly.

Amilyn nodded with a sigh. “Trust me, this was not my first choice,” she said. “Someone of his reputation...I hate to have him associated with our company. But his mother is an old friend of mine, so I'm doing it for her.” She shrugged. “Hopefully it's not too much of a disaster.”

“So...is he coming to this meeting?” Jannah Calrissian, a layout and design specialist, leaned forward in her chair to reach for her coffee.

“No,” Amilyn replied. “Probably someone from his PR team. Regardless, as I'm sure you recall, you all had to sign an NDA. He insisted on that.” She checked her watch, then squinted at the clock on the wall. “Well, they'll be here any minute, and Rey's not here. Have you heard from her at all, Rose?”

Rose shook her head. “No, I haven't,” she said, furrowing her brow and reaching for her phone. “I'll see if she's in her office.”

“Yeah, could you do that, please?” Amilyn asked, flipping through her notes.

“Sure.” Rose popped out of her chair and rushed out the door, her fingers flying over the screen of her phone.

“Have any of you guys seen his movies?” Jannah asked. “I saw _Forgotten Angels_ over the weekend and it was pretty good.”

Poe scoffed, his chair tipping back further. “No,” he said dismissively. “I saw him in his space movie and I thought it sucked. His character deserved to die, really. What a prick. And he seems like he'd be a prick in real life.”

The door swung open as Poe was talking, and in walked Ben Solo, carrying an accordion file in one large hand, his face mostly covered by a black face mask, and he shot a withering look in Poe's direction. “I hope I'm not too late,” he said pointedly, dropping the file on the table with a slapping sound that cracked off of the walls.

Amilyn rose to her feet, surprised, recognition dawning on her face as she studied him. “Oh, Mr. Solo...we...we weren't expecting _you_ ,” she told him. “I thought someone on your PR team was coming.”

“I told them that I wanted control over the project. They don't know I'm here.” He took a seat in an unoccupied chair and glared around the table, his stare even colder and more frightening over the black face mask, his eyes lingering on Poe a few seconds longer as punishment for what he had overheard. “I'd like it to be _kept_ that way.”

“Shit, this guy is intense,” Finn muttered to Poe.

“Shh,” Poe hissed back, hunching into his chair to avoid Ben's eyes.

“Of course, Mr. Solo,” Amilyn assured him. “Well, as you may recall from my correspondence, I'm Amilyn Holdo, and I'm the CEO of this publishing company. Would you care for any coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you, Ms. Holdo,” he said politely.

“You can take off the mask, if you'd like. As you asked, everyone involved in this project was required to sign an NDA.”

Ben shook his head. “This room has windows, and you have other employees working in this building,” he said matter-of-factly. “I'd like to keep my mask on, thank you.”

“I understand. If I had known you were coming, I would have arranged for the meeting to take place outside of business hours.”

“Jesus Christ,” Poe muttered, and Jannah shot him a murderous glare.

Ben's brow furrowed, and he looked around the room, individually meeting the eyes of each of the employees seated around the conference table. “I thought there would be a smaller staff working on this, Ms. Holdo,” he said, deliberately looking at Poe.

“This is about as small a staff as I could get,” Amilyn said, shrugging. “I can assure you that much consideration went into selecting this team.” She began to introduce each employee, gesturing to them as she spoke their names. “This is Poe, he works in editing. Finn, marketing. Jannah, layout and design. We're just waiting on the illustrator and the art director. You'll probably be working the most closely with our illustrator. I think you'll find her an excellent collaborator."

Ben nodded, his expression still unfriendly. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps those meetings can take place outside of business hours?”

“I'm sure that can be arranged,” Amilyn told him.

Ben nodded, and an uncomfortable silence fell around the conference table, with the buzzing of the fluorescent lights and Finn's nervous pen clicking the only sounds in the room.

“I'm...um...I really liked _Forgotten Angels,_ ” Jannah blurted, unable to stand the tension any longer.

“Thank you.” Ben shifted in his chair, but his closed expression barely changed—or if it did, none of them could tell with the mask on.

“Yeah, um,” Finn stammered. “I've been meaning to see that. Should I?”

Ben flicked a bored glance in his direction. “I don't know. Doesn't matter to me.” His eyes moved to Poe. “Perhaps _you_ would like to share an opinion on my work, now that I'm in the room.”

Poe ducked down further. “I'm good,” he mumbled.

Ben sighed impatiently, looking up at the clock. “Who are we waiting for, again?”

* * *

“Shit, shit, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Rey muttered, jabbing repeatedly at the button to close the elevator doors. She was going to be late—and she had even written herself a sticky note, in front of Rose! The ice cubes in the coffee she clutched tightly in her shaking hand jittered together and her shoe tapped impatiently on the floor.

She had overslept—of _course_ she had—and she had dressed and run out the door, stopping at the drive-thru to get iced coffee and a muffin, but the car in front of her was ordering enough food for an army, apparently, delaying her even more. There could not possibly be a worse way to start one's day.

She flew through the doors as soon as they opened to her floor, taking off in the direction of the conference room, but she threw on the brakes when she spotted Rose pacing outside her office.

“Where have you been?” Rose demanded, her expression both relieved and annoyed. “Is that coffee the reason why you're late?”

“Let's just say it is,” Rey sighed. “Come on, let's go.”

“They're probably there by now,” Rose fretted, hurrying to catch up with Rey. “Anyway, I'm glad you weren't in an accident or anything, but did you have to be late _this_ morning?”

“I'm sorry. Really.” Rey scoffed at herself. “I'm such a mess today.”

“It'll be fine,” Rose assured her, reaching for the conference room door. “Now let's get this meeting _done with._ ”

“Mm,” Rey agreed. “No way this can get any worse.”

Rose pulled the door open and Rey recognized him immediately.


End file.
